


Laid to Rest

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:20:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A sad, sweetly comical story about necrophilia. (Don't say you weren't warned!)





	Laid to Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Laid To Rest by Brooklyn Bentleigh

Okay, this one isn't Connie's fault. It's Bren's. She kept twitting me about that necrophilia thing, and I can never resist a challenge! It's another (alternate) sequel to Bren's "Krycek" -- again, unofficial, unauthorized, and unsanctioned. And yes, this one comes with a ***necrophilia warning****!!!! (I do write normal stories, you know. Well, more normal than this. This is an aberration. Really.)  
Okay to upload to MKRA (though I quite understand if Marita doesn't want it there!) Please don't post elsewhere

* * *

Laid To Rest  
Brooklyn Bentleigh

Mulder pulled his car into the driveway of his family's beach cottage. It was almost fall, and most of the summer people were gone, but the sun was still bright and hot, the water blue and clear. Quonochontaug, Rhode Island was one of those places that never seemed to change. The car was a sleek Ford sedan rather than a massive Chevy Bel-Air station wagon, but aside from that, everything looked just as it always had twenty-five years ago. He took his dufflebag and a sack of groceries from the trunk, unlocked the front door, and went in. It seemed dark, after the bright sunshine outside. The lights worked, though -- good, the power company had turned on the electricity, as he'd requested.

The house smelled like salt and sea air, with just a hint of mustiness. The scent brought back bittersweet memories -- happy, carefree summers spent here with his family, which had never been the same after Sam had disappeared, and his father and mother divorced....

His mother was the reason he was here. She was thinking of selling the place, which meant it had to be cleaned up. She'd been perfectly willing to do it herself, but Mulder didn't want her to. Her health wasn't what it used to be, and she was getting on in years. And there was more, if truth be told. He remembered the alien weapon he'd found in the lamp here, and couldn't help wondering what other secrets might be hidden in the cottage. If his mother chose to sell the place, they might be lost forever. So Mulder had taken a week's vacation, to put the house in order and salvage anything he could.

He plugged the refrigerator in and put his groceries away. The place really was a mess, unfortunately. It looked like it had been ransacked -- mainly because it had been. By Mulder, the last time he was here. He grabbed a broom and some garbage bags, and got to work. 

It was well after dark when he when he was interrupted by a faint noise. He paused for a moment, then decided it was nothing and went back to emptying drawers. The noise came again, louder. Something was scratching at the front door.

A neighbor's dog, maybe...still, Mulder retrieved his pistol from his dufflebag before going to the door. "Who's there?" he called. There was no answer, only more scratching. Mulder opened the door a few inches, peered out -- then slammed it with all his strength.

He leaned against the door, breathing hard, heart pounding painfully in his chest. There was a human skeleton standing out there. *Standing.* After a brief, panicked moment, he realized it had to be some kind of joke. Feeling foolish, he cracked the door open again.

The door flew back, slamming Mulder to the floor. He stared up in disbelief as the skeleton came in. No wires, no trickery that Mulder could detect. It was walking on its own. It couldn't be...but it was. Mulder scrambled to his feet, backing across the room as fast as possible. He gripped his gun with both hands, bringing it up to aim at...what? How did you kill what was already dead?

He stood there trembling, clutching his gun as the thing moved toward him. Maybe it was something familiar in the sinister grace of its movements, or some prompting from his uneasy conscience. Or perhaps it just some trick of the heart. But Mulder suddenly knew who this was.

"Krycek."

The gleaming teeth parted. "I'm glad you remember me," a voice said, low and soft and menacing. The voice that haunted Mulder's darkest nightmares.

Mulder was unresisting as cool bone fingers closed over his, prying the gun away. He watched with helpless fascination as the gun was turned toward him, the safety flicked off. Even naked of flesh, he recognized Krycek's hands. They were, as they had been in life, surprisingly delicate for someone with such a solid build, the wrists narrow, the fingers slender and flexible.

There were other things he recognized, too. The telltale signs of bullet wounds on the skull and ribcage, where Mulder had shot him. Killed him, as he lay sleepy and sated on Mulder's bed.

The gun was shoved violently into Mulder's stomach. He gasped, knowing that he was about to die. Krycek would kill him, the same way he'd killed Krycek. A shot to the gut, then to the face. Some part of him had expected it, had always known it would end like this. But part of him was amazed and entranced, and couldn't resist questioning this, the most startling X-file of them all. "Why?" he asked.

"You know why," Krycek answered, voice hoarse with fury. "You shot me as I was lying in your bed, helpless and naked and unarmed. It's payback time."

"But why now?" Mulder pressed. "That was years ago. Why did you wait until now?"

There was a long pause. Mulder thought he wasn't going to get answer, when Krycek said, "Distance...and time. This is the first time you've been here alone long enough."

Been *here*...?

"Oh, yes," Krycek said. "After you dumped my body at my boss' apartment, he had me buried here, on your property. Devious bastard, isn't he?"

"Where?"

"Oh, in the woods at the edge of your lot. Where no one would find me, unless someone told them where to look."

Devious bastard, indeed. Mulder -- and Krycek, too, no doubt -- was out of his league when it came to men like that.

"I sensed you getting nearer and nearer, Mulder. I had to wait until dark, and it took me awhile to get out of my grave, but there was no way I was going to miss welcoming you back to the old homestead this time." The gun was raised, pressed to Mulder's forehead.

Mulder shut his eyes, waiting for the shot that would end his life. The cool metal against his skin began to warm, and still Krycek did not pull the trigger. Finally Mulder opened his eyes again, looking into Krycek's face. Though it was only bone and hollow sockets now, it was strangely expressive. Mulder could read the hesitation there. He reached out, placed his hand softly against Krycek's breastbone. "It's okay," he said. "It's your right. Do it. I want you to."

Still Krycek did not fire. Mulder slid his hand along the slim, twin bones of Krycek's forearm. "Go on," he said, placing his fingers over Krycek's, giving the ivory hand an encouraging squeeze.

Then Mulder was shoved backwards, the gun pulled away. Krycek clicked the safety on and tossed the weapon the kitchen table. "I...I can't do it."

Mulder was incredulous. "You were a professional killer. You killed my father. Why can't you kill me?"

"I was not a professional killer," Krycek snapped. After a long pause, he admitted, "Okay, maybe I was. But it was only in the line of duty. I never killed anyone for...personal revenge." He said the last two words as if they tasted bad.

Now that hurt. Mulder really could have done without finding out that Alex Krycek, of all people, was a better man than he was. "Well...what now?" he asked.

"I don't know," Krycek answered. "I came back just to kill you. Now I don't know what to do."

Mulder considered a moment. He picked up a box of plastic garbage bags and threw it to Krycek. "You can help me clean up this dump. Salvation Army in that pile, trash over there."

                    # # # # # #

Krycek had always been energetic and industrious, and death hadn't changed that. With his help, Mulder made a lot more progress than he'd have managed on his own. It was getting near midnight when someone knocked on the door. Krycek immediately went into the bedroom, out of sight.

Mulder answered the door to find two uniformed police officers standing there, a man and a woman. "Good evening, sir," the woman said. "Sorry to disturb you, but one of your neighbors called to report a light on here. He says Mrs. Mulder, who owns this house, doesn't get out here any more, so he was concerned. We just thought we'd check, to set his mind at ease."

"It's all right," Mulder said. "I'm Ruth Mulder's son, Fox. Here, I'm going to get some ID."

To Mulder's dismay, the cops followed him into the living room when he went to get his dufflebag. If Krycek chose to show himself...well, he could get his revenge without actually having to kill anyone. The presence of the bones of his ex-partner in his house would be awfully hard to explain.

But there was no sound or movement from the bedroom. Mulder showed the officers his FBI badge and driver's license, and they apologized and went away. Mulder locked the door behind them, sighing in relief.

Krycek didn't emerge from the bedroom, so Mulder went in to find him sitting quietly on the edge of the bed. "They're gone," Mulder said. He hesitated, then added, "Thank you."

"What did they want?"

"Nothing. Just wondered what I was doing here. The joys of small-town life. The only entertainment is spying on your neighbors."

Krycek made a noncommittal noise and leaned back, sprawling out on the bed. It was a painful reminder of the last time he'd had Krycek in his bed. But now there was only stark bone where once there had been hair like dark silk and skin like pale velvet, soft, tempting lips, and eyes as fierce and green as jealousy.... It made Mulder unutterably sad.

He sat down on the bed, and Krycek obligingly made room for him. Mulder reached out to touch the curve of his skull, the smooth, sand-polished ivory webbed with fine cracks where the fatal bullet had entered "You...you know I'm sorry, don't you, Alex?" he asked.

"I must, since I can't bring myself to kill you." But he didn't sound angry.

Suddenly tired, Mulder lay down on the bed as well. It was midnight, and here he was, with the mortal remains of the man he had killed, and who had returned from the grave for revenge. He should be scared stiff. Well, he gradually realized...he was stiff all right, but not out of fear.

Lying intimately beside Krycek, changed though he was, brought back vivid memories of their last night together. Mulder hadn't allowed himself to think about it in the intervening years, but now he couldn't resist.. That one short night, temporarily free of the crushing weight of all the lies and betrayal and pain between them, had been the best of his life.

And now that weight was once again gone, this time for good. Krycek had paid for his misdeeds with his life, and was willing to let Mulder keep the change. The scales were even now between them.

Mulder rolled onto his side, looking at Krycek. He was different now, but he was still beautiful -- with a spare, geometrical perfection that was startlingly sensuous. Mulder leaned over and kissed the knob of Krycek's shoulder. Krycek didn't react for a long moment, then turned toward Mulder. "You really are a pervert."

"It's one of my better qualities," Mulder agreed.

"You always do this to me," Krycek protested. "This was supposed to be 'Night of the Living Dead,' not 'A Rose For Emily,'"

Mulder laughed. George Romero and William Faulkner? "You have eclectic tastes, Krycek."

"So do you!"

"Well, you don't want to kill me. We have to find something else to do," Mulder said. He ran a hand along the long, slender bone of Krycek's thigh. Krycek shivered in response, the soft rattling sound racing along Mulder's nerves like fire. Encouraged, Mulder went further, exploring the secret hollows of Krycek's pelvis, caressing and stroking and rubbing. Krycek shook harder, thrusting against Mulder's hand. Soon he was crying out and shuddering violently, thrashing and clutching at the bedclothes. "Oh, god, Mulder," he whispered hoarsely, when it was over.

By now Mulder was painfully aroused. He fumbled his jeans open, freeing himself from the increasingly uncomfortable confinement. Taking Krycek's hand, he pressed it against his throbbing erection.

"Mulder...are you sure...?"

"Touch me, damn it," Mulder growled impatiently.

After a moment of hesitation, Krycek obeyed, running his fingers lightly over Mulder's burning flesh. Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration. The tentative caresses were as much torment as pleasure. Krycek had apparently decided to kill him after all -- by teasing him to death. Mulder whimpered, trying to rub himself against Krycek's hand. Krycek finally took the hint, and wrapped his fingers around Mulder's cock, stroking firmly. Mulder sighed in relief, which quickly gave way to mounting urgency. Krycek's touch was shockingly arousing, cool and smooth and so very *different*. Wild with lust, Mulder pulled his lover against him, hugging him close, kissing wherever his lips could reach. Krycek stroked him faster, and began nibbling gently at the tender skin of Mulder's neck and shoulder. Mulder found himself trembling helplessly, almost too excited to come. Then Krycek's other hand slipped down to delicately tickle Mulder's balls, and the orgasm that had been building relentlessly exploded with a force that wiped the world away.

                           # # # # #

The rest of the week passed quickly. They worked on the house during the day, slept and made love in the big old bed at night. Krycek helped him search the house thoroughly, but they found no secrets, in the lamps or elsewhere. They found something else, though -- a measure of peace.

On Sunday afternoon, Mulder began packing for his trip back to D.C. "Are you coming with me?" he asked Krycek, who was lying on the bed.

There was a long pause. "No," Krycek finally said. "I have to...go back. It's time."

Mulder was not really surprised. Krycek had been getting quieter and more lethargic as the week went on. Fading, almost imperceptibly, like the bright, hot summer.

When it got dark, they went out the back door, into the yard. Krycek took his hand and led him into a stand of trees and brush, to the side and back of the property. The ground was very slightly disturbed, nothing you would notice if you weren't looking for it.

Mulder caressed the slim, ivory wands of Krycek's fingers as they stood together in the dark, listening to the waves wash the beach not far away. There was so much he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. "Alex..."

"I know, Mulder." He squeezed Mulder's hand gently. "But I got what I came back for. I can't stay any longer."

"Will I see you again?" Mulder asked.

"Of course. But not here."

Mulder leaned over and softly kissed Krycek's forehead. Krycek hugged him briefly, and stepped back, letting go of his hand. "Good-by, Mulder," he said, then sunk into the earth so fast he was gone without a trace in seconds.

"Good-by, Krycek," Mulder said. He knelt to scatter a handful of the loose, sandy soil over the grave, then turned and went back to the empty house.


End file.
